The second poem of the English Civil War series is another tip-toe through the Royalist camp, at the dawn of the Conflict.

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Softly, at the waking hour, as sunrise paints her golden dawn;
as earth stirs from her icy slumber, hoar-frost clings to bramble thorn.
Upon the casements, frosty patterns... icy cobwebs, silken-fine;
compared to you, their beauty founders, gently slumbering love of mine.

Warm light creeping through the casement, steals to kiss you in your sleep;
slumber love, for I must go now, and I would not see you weep.
Sword brothers wait in stable yard, our steeds impatient for the fray,
although I long to stay with you, my Duty calls; I must away.

Should fickle fate smile down on me, I shall return before the spring
bursts forth, across our Devonish vales. We ride to Edgehill for the King.
Had not this dam'ned war prevailed, so newly wed... I would not leave,
but, you have known me half my life; and know I must; although I grieve.

And, if fey providence strikes me down, describe me to our new-born son;
school him in principles I held, and, bid him not... sword buckle on.
I must away, I dare not tarry; one last, soft kiss washed with brine,
for I must to my Destiny; so farewell, gentle love of mine.

When you awake, and find me gone; don't follow love... t' would not be wise,
for a tiny bird just cannot fly in a storm, however hard she tries.